


Came for you

by CooperCooperGo



Series: Imagine ClintCoulson Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Prompt Fill, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9832412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CooperCooperGo/pseuds/CooperCooperGo
Summary: It had taken three days to find him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Application prompt: Imagine ClintCoulson. #Imagine Character A being held hostage and has to be saved

The long, pale column of Coulson’s throat stretched unnaturally over the back of the chair that held him, his face turned up toward the ceiling, eyes shut. His once-white shirt was open and torn, dark-stained, his wrists and ankles locked into specially-made cuffs built into the chair.

Clint lay directly above him, belly-down, his weight spread across the steel girders of the warehouse’s ceiling, and watched him breathe. In his ear the buzz of mission chatter flowed on as SHIELD searched the rest of the warehouses, an efficient cadence of “Check. Check. Check.” There was a distant burst of gunfire. But here it was empty and quiet; weak sunlight slanting through dirty skylights, motes of dust drifting though the still air. And the shallow rise and fall of the chest of the man below him. Clint touched a hand to his ear, turned the comm unit off.

"Coulson," he called, a whisper, a breath. "Coulson, wake up. Your ride's here."

The man below him stirred. "Mmm," he said, his lips parting with an audible pop, the blood at his mouth gone tacky. Coulson’s eyes cracked open, blinked hazy and slow, the skin beneath them bruised and shadowed.

Clint dug his fingernails into his palm around the grip of his bow. Let the pain suppress the impulse to drop down from the ceiling and gather his handler up in his arms. Push the life they’d taken from him back into him. Let the scent of his skin and his breath on his neck wash away the sick terror of that last strained call over the radio before he’d gone silent. Of the three days it had taken to find him.

Coulson squinted up at him. “An angel,” he said.

Clint huffed out a startled chuckle. “Sorry you got the cut-rate one, sir,” he grinned. “Maybe you should wait for the next one. Thompson will be along in a second. Or Menendez.”

Pretty, long-legged Thompson: smart, competent, who knew things like when to clap at a symphony and which fork to use for salad. Or Menendez: charming, always cracking a joke, who'd gotten Coulson tickets to that jazz festival last month.

“You could have your pick,” Clint finished hopelessly, his grin sliding away.

Coulson struggled weakly to ease the pressure on his neck, then gave up with a wince. But his eyes were now more fully focused on Clint. He breathed in carefully, before his lip quirked up in what might have been one of Coulson's barely-there smiles, all self-depreciating irony, like he was laughing at himself.

“You’ll do,” he said, his voice a rasp of sound, and closed his eyes.

A SHIELD team burst into the warehouse, a chaos of people and gear and noise and the staccato rap of shouted orders. Clint didn’t move, staring down at the man below him, his heartbeat thudding against the girder, the hard pounding of blood so loud in his ears that he couldn't hear any of it.


End file.
